


only bought this dress so you could take it off

by coralsclato



Series: history is written by the victors (we are the survivors) [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post Canon, Dresses, F/M, Parties, This was supposed to be soft, angsty, but also.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:14:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29381202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coralsclato/pseuds/coralsclato
Summary: cato and clove go to a capitol party in their honor - and cato finds himself captivated by clove.
Relationships: Cato/Clove (Hunger Games)
Series: history is written by the victors (we are the survivors) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2145462
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	only bought this dress so you could take it off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [screechyschreech](https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechyschreech/gifts), [accurst_writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/accurst_writer/gifts).



> Haha, just thought I would clarify: there will be no dress removal. Thanks for reading!

It's so god-damn loud.

He can feel the beat of the music, violently thrumming in his head. At a volume he thinks shouldn't be humanly _possible_ \- at a volume that makes his eyes fall shut, tightly squeezed together. That makes his heart pound from where it's caged beneath his ribs ( _caged,_ just like he is, Cato thinks with a bitter curl of his lips).

Or maybe that's just the effect _she_ has on him.

Unlike Cato, Clove seems perfectly fine. Unfazed. She demurely covers her mouth as she yawns, eyes flickering over the lavish Capitol people (they come in all sorts of colors and with all sorts of piercings, Cato notes, because years at the Academy have taught him to be observant like that) with something like disdain. She seems almost _bored_ \- but then again, that's how she always is, Cato remembers. Apathetic. Unimpressed.

She stands there, solid and alone - her deep, wine colored dress swishing at her ankles, her lips pursed into a frown - so unlike that wolfish grin she'd sported so _beatifically_ as she slits the throats of their enemies. So unlike that wild, maddened gleam in her eyes.

(The contrast is noticeable, but somehow not unwelcome.)

It's not until a few seconds later, when the music and the lights and the people are starting to fade, to hurt less (the music and the lights and the people are being replaced by a _new_ pain - _her_ ), that he notices her eyes meeting his. How she looks almost surprised by his existence, surprised that he's still even here.

So _real._ So _tangible._

Cato isn't sure what exactly comes over him. Maybe it's the lull in the party, or the false security of having a crowd to surround him, or maybe just his own fucked up head - but somehow, he finds himself stalking towards her, in smooth, if not slightly unsure movements.

(He considers the fact that he _didn't_ trip and fall all over himself to be an achievement.)

(She always made fun of him for his clumsiness. And maybe _that's_ why he walked over to her. Maybe _that's_ why he was feeling so brave, so reckless. For the tease. For the adrenaline.)

(For _her._ )

As Cato nears, she arches one eyebrow at him. A gesture of challenge. Of distrust (like a blade, it twists deep into his heart).

(She was always adept with weapons.)

"We could get out of here, you know," he begins. He tries to lean against the bar in a suave facade, but immediately stops when Clove begins to look like she's going to laugh at him, the corners of her eyes forming that telltale crinkle.

He immediately misses the twinkle in her deep, fathomless eyes. The glimmer of humor, of real _happiness._

"You don't seem to be having much fun," he elaborates quickly - his words are sluggish, slurred. Barely intelligible.

Cato decides that all that liquor might have been a mistake.

(But he learned from his fellow Victor Haymitch Abernathy that alcohol was an easy cure for his problems - an easy way to feel _numb_ and _light_ and _free_ , to have the temporarily bliss of, for once, _not_ feeling trapped. Even if it's not the "most healthiest of coping mechanisms," or whatever.)

"No thank you," Clove murmurs primly. Proudly tilting her chin up, so she can at least have the _pretense_ that they're at the same height.

(He wants to tell her that it doesn't matter. That no matter what, she'll always have an advantage over him.)

Cato tries to give her a passive shrug. "Suit yourself," he says, with very little conviction.

She makes a face at him - maybe it's disapproval. Maybe it's something entirely different all together.

He tilts his head mockingly back at her - is even tempted to give her a heartfelt "fuck you," for no particular reason at all.

Instead, he just walks away. Not even bothering to look back.

+

She kisses like she kills. Like she's going to _kill_ _him_ \- nails clawing through his hair, face relentlessly pressed against his.

He remembers a time, a time when he could _reach_ her and _feel_ her. When he knew what she was thinking with only one glance, when it was all that easy for them.

(They weren't quite as broken as they are now, he remembers, with something like a jolt of realism. Of the truth - the painful and unavoidable truth that they're shattered, like glass, into thousands of pieces.)

Now, it's like kissing a stranger. Cato memorized how soft and pink her lips were, memorized the way they pursed in indignation as she frowned at him, memorized the way they tilted upwards when she teased him. He memorized the electric glow he felt when his hands settled on her hips.

The only feeling he can memorize now is numbness. As he lets her bite and ravage and take, until his lips are raw and bleeding.

(The way she likes her corpses.)

 _Cato,_ he remembers her whispering. And he said her name back to her in one quiet plea, and it was so incredible - how she felt on his tongue.

He feels a wistfulness - a _longing_ \- for when everything was that simple. For when they had more time together.

Now, time itself has been reshaped. Tainted, by the powers that forced them into their Games - into their _ruin._

"For what it's worth, you look beautiful tonight," he tells her, voice already hoarse from all the kissing (and the tears that burn the backs of his eyes and press against his skull) - and it's stupid, but he can feel himself getting lost. He can feel himself, even watch, in one of those weird, cliched out-of-body experiences, as he becomes so deeply and profoundly mesmerized by her - or at least what she used to be.

(What she used to be, before she was a soulless, cold-blooded killer.)

(Not that he is any different.)

"That's - " Her breath hitches. "That's worth nothing, Cato."

Cato tilts his head to the side. Watches as she writhes against him. Arching her back.

"You're a bad liar," he says, with a bemused smile, before kissing her again.

**Author's Note:**

> I love kudos and comments. Maybe you can give me some this Valentine's Day. ;)


End file.
